


Kiss Like Redemption

by Juuzous_Mother



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Feels, I Don't Even Know, M/M, i cry, i have no idea what i am doing, improper use of parenthesis I think, shit man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 12:00:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5539187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Juuzous_Mother/pseuds/Juuzous_Mother
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was at the docks where Bucky used to work. Even thinking his name stung now, because just a few months ago, Bucky had come back from the dead, no memory of Steve, of anyone, of anything but killing.</p><p>                                                                                                    ~*~</p><p>It was summer where he was, but he could feel the cold air, feel the snow hit his face as he clutched desperately to freezing, numbing metal (it’s just a memory, but it takes away reality).</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kiss Like Redemption

**Author's Note:**

> Imagine your OTP seeing each other again after a long, forced separation. They go running into each other’s arms and kiss. 
> 
> Bonus if they had not yet said their feelings for each other. 
> 
>  
> 
> Spot the "The Song of Achilles" and Tokyo Ghoul references and we can cry together.

The sea air stung on Steve’s still-healing wounds. His eyes watered in the salty breeze.  
He was at the docks where Bucky used to work. Even thinking his name stung now, because just a few months ago, Bucky had come back from the dead, no memory of Steve, of anyone, of anything but killing.  
And Steve’s heart still ached at the horror that filled Bucky’s eyes when he finally, finally remembered who Steve was, and then Steve was falling, drowning, being pulled to shore by a metal hand.   
Steve took in a sharp breath.   
The place was old, now, and the wood was rotten. It was clear no one had worked here for a long time.   
Steve couldn’t help remembering how, in the spring and summer, Bucky would come home with a sunburnt face and neck, and Steve would lay a cold cloth on the peeling skin and chide Bucky, telling him to cover his neck and wear a cap, goddamnit. Bucky would just laugh, and Steve would sigh and shake his head until Bucky called him a mother duckling-- then Steve’d try to get Bucky into a headlock, which succeeded a quarter of the time, and they would dissolve into blissful, peaceful laughter.  
The ache in Steve’s chest amplifies.  
Jesus, he was so in love with him. Why hadn’t he realised it sooner? Why hadn’t he acted on his urges, why hadn’t he told Bucky, like he told him anything, anything but that.   
But even as the questions flew rapid-fire through his mind, the answers were clear. Because. Because it was dangerous. Because Bucky could never be interested in him. Because he didn’t want to lose Bucky.   
“That worked out well for me,” Steve grumbled bitterly. A seagull laughed at him.   
All this thinking of Bucky, another memory flew into his head, this one of a beautiful dame with dancing brown eyes and smiling cherry lips.   
Peggy was in that red dress, with a lipstick that matched perfectly. She’d looked at him with pretty brown eyes, the corner of her red lips tilting up, and his heart’d skipped a beat.  
There was a part of Steve that wanted to kiss her then, but he couldn’t, not with Bucky, his first (and probably only) love right there.  
And when Peggy had kissed him before he jumped to the plane, it felt wrong, like a betrayal to himself. He’d loved Peggy, sure, but he’d never really been in love with her. His heart belonged to someone else, even in their death.  
It had worked out well enough for Peggy though. She’d met a gal back in the States-- Angie, he thinks her name was. She’d married a soldier who never had any real interest in girls, for his protection, for her protection, for Angie’s protection. Later, they’d decided they both wanted kids.  
Steve was happy to hear this.   
Steve’s heart ached to hear this, because he could have had something like that. He could have been with Bucky without any suspicion, could have married a dame who had no real interest in either of them. Maybe they’d decide kids would be nice, and they’d care enough about each other to have some.   
But Bucky fell. The war was cruel, and Steve never saw it through.   
And then, in the real, waking world, another man was there.   
“Bucky,” the name left Steve’s mouth in a rush of air.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
You’re my mission.  
It was summer where he was, but he could feel the cold air, feel the snow hit his face as he clutched desperately to freezing, numbing metal (it’s just a memory, but it takes away reality).  
YOU’RE. MY. MISSION.  
His hand is reaching desperately for another. (Take his hand take his hand take his hand take--)  
Then finish it. Cause I’m with you til the end of the line.  
Steve (the name brings him a feeling of safety).   
The metal gives. He screams as he falls. He hits the rocks, and his arm catches in a crack. Gravity tears it from him. Hurt hurt hurt (it does not hurt as much as the look on Steve’s face when he looked at Agent Carter in that red dress).  
An unfamiliar face peers down at him. He’s being dragged through the snow, blood flowing from the stump of his arm into the white. The contrast is startling. Steve would have loved to paint it, he thinks, had he been there (had it not been Bucky’s blood).  
He’s locked in a cold metal room for years, he thinks. His arm is wrapped in dirty bandages. All he can think of was the red of his blood, the white of the snow, the blue of his coat. All he can think of is blond hair and blue eyes and red cheeks (Jesus, is Steve even alive?).  
Then Zola comes with another man. He gets an arm made of metal. They do not give him anesthesia (but it doesn’t hurt as much as the news Zola brings, of Steve being lost to the ice).  
The man Zola brings works slowly. He twists and manipulates Bucky’s mind. He makes him think that working with HYDRA will bring the world peace and freedom. Part of him knows this is a lie (he cannot bring himself to care).  
He is nothing but an Asset, a weapon. He is only used in extreme situations, and frozen in the time between (he thinks, sometimes, that maybe in this cryo-induced sleep, he will find someone).  
And then the man with the shield comes and everything the Winter Soldier knows it wrong, so wrong, because how can something that man hates so much be right? And then the man calls the Soldier by a name that is familiarly painful. He cannot shoot this man. He is kicked away from him (he is glad; he would not be able to forgive himself if he shot the man on the bridge, though he doesn’t know why).  
He is wiped again. It is painful (not as painful as the heartbroken look on a man’s face).  
Then he’s fighting a man in a suit that nudges at his memory. He doesn’t want to fight this man. He has to fight this man (he hates himself with every punch he throws, every shot he takes at the man).  
And then the blond saves him. He drops his shield. The Soldier wants to shout at the man for his stupidity, but instead he tackles him (he’d rather be punching himself than this man).  
The blond says those words and everything comes back to him in a rush of agony. He remembers Steve, the short, weak kid who had so many ailments he shouldn’t’ve ever been allowed outside without a scarf and supervision. Steve, the kid who would pick fights with men two or three times his height. Steve, now tall and strong, saving him. Steve, looking at a woman in a way he should have been looking at him. He remembers falling again (he wished he didn’t).  
Bucky snaps himself out of it as best he can, and looks around him (he does his best to ignore the way his surroundings morph into snowy mountains and train tracks).  
He’s stumbled far from the Smithsonian in his delirious reliving of memories. His feet ache almost as bad as head. Almost. He blinks to try and clear the memories (it only works so much).  
It’s familiar here, despite its state of ruin. The wood is rotten, and it’s empty but for a few crates. But he recognizes it as an old workplace. Seagulls clatter in the distance (after a while the noise fades into the rattling of loose metal and the chugging of a train).  
A man stands tall in the sunset, and Bucky can see his eyes are glazed over, as if he, too, is living in a memory. He knows this man (he’d know this man even in death).  
Steve’s head turns, almost of its own accord. His eyes widen, and a name leaves his lips in a whoosh of air. “Bucky.”  
His voice snaps him out of a haze of memories. It’s as if the lines making Steve up become sharper, clearer. His eyes are oh-so-blue, his lips an inviting shade of pink. Bucky wants to kiss him. “Steve,” he says, and his voice, raspy from disuse, is soft as tears well in his eyes. “Steve.”  
And Bucky’s rushing towards him. Steve tenses, as if preparing to defend himself, but Bucky’s too focused on the prospect of Steve being right there to notice, let alone care.   
His heart is thrumming in his chest. Steve is just feet away, but now Bucky can see the uncertainty in his eyes. Thank God, he thinks, rather oddly. Punk's finally exercising something like caution.   
"Steve," Bucky says again, and now he's crushing Steve in a hug, because Steve’s new caution be damned, Bucky missed the reckless punk. "Stevie. Steve."  
"Bucky?" Steve's voice is hesitant.   
"Steve," and Bucky is crying, now, because he can't do much else. "It's me, it's Bucky, Steve." He's hysterical. "Jesus, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't know what I was doing--"  
And then Steve kisses him, and Bucky does not care about HYDRA, about the blood he has spilt, about the lives he has taken, because Steve's kiss feels like redemption. He clutches to the back of Steve's shirt as if it were the metal he'd clung to decades ago.   
Steve's body is warm, and he tastes like coffee and metal and hope. His hands wipe the tears from Bucky's face and then from his own, and, for the first time since 1943, he feels safe.   
As he pulls away from Steve's kiss, he says, "Let's go home, Stevie. Let's go home."

**Author's Note:**

> Hooo boy.   
> So yeah as i said i have no idea what I'm doing here I just kinda.... wrote.... and CRIED....  
> If there are any mistakes, blame the tears. Also, tell me. Please.


End file.
